
PS 2152 
.J4 T6 
1913 
Copy 1 



TO BARBARA 

WITH OTHER VERSES 
BY 

DAVID STARR JORDAN 




Class T$? .j32. 



Copyright N° 



%\3 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



TO BARBARA 



WITH OTHER VERSES 



David Starr Jordan 



PRIVATELY PRINTED 

PALO ALTO 

SANTA CLARA COUNTY 

CALIFORNIA 

1913 






COPYRIGHT, IQI3 

BY 

DAVID STARR JORDAN 



A350230 



"■ 



TO THE MEMORY OF 

A LITTLE GIRL 

FOR WHOM AND FOR WHOSE MOTHER 

THESE VERSES WERE WRITTEN 



CONTENTS 

To Barbara 7 

Men Told Me, Lord 11 

There Was a Man 12 

Altruism 14 

When Man Shall Come 16 

To John Maxson Stillman 17 

Viverols 18 

Sinaloa 20 

A Castle in the Air 23 

A Castle in Spain 24 

Santa Clara, Virgen y Martir 25 

Madame Delicieuse 27 

In a Week of Sundays 28 

I Sit in Darkness 29 

Komandorski 30 

Cape Cheerful 33 

In Tehachapi 35 

Kaweah in Tulare 36 

The Bubbles of Saki 39 

To Lady Alice Courteney 41 

To Melville Best Anderson 48 

The Imperialist 51 



TO BARBARA. 

Little lady, cease your play, 
For a moment, if you may; 
Come to me, and tell me true 
How those black eyes came to you. 

Father's eyes are granite gray, 
And your mother's, Barbara, 
Black as the obsidian stone, 
With a luster all their own. 
How should one so small as you 
Learn to choose between the two? 

If through father's eyes you look, 
Nature seems an open book, 
All her secrets written clear 
On her pages round you, dear. 
Better yet than this may be 
If through mother's eyes you see; 
Theirs to read, a finer art, 
Deep down in the human heart. 
How should one so small as you 
Choose so well between the two? 

Hide your face behind your fan, 
Little black-eyed Puritan; 
Peer across its edge at me 
In demurest coquetry, 
Like some Dona Placida, 
Not the Puritan you are. 



Subtle sorcery there lies 
In the glances of your eyes, 
Calling forth, from out the vast 
Vaults of the forgotten past, 
Pictures dim and far away 
From the full life of to-day, 
Like the figures that we see 
Wrought in ancient tapestry. 

This the vision comes to me: 
Sheer rock rising from the sea, 
Wind-riven, harsh, and vertical, 
To a gray old castle wall; 
Waving palms upon its height, 
At its feet the breakers white, 
Chasing o'er an emerald bay, 
Like a flock of swans that play; 
Tile-roofed houses of the town, 
From the hills slow-creeping down: 
Rocks and palms and castle wall, 
Emerald seas that rise and fall, 
Golden haze and glittering blue — 
What is all of this to you? 

Only this, perchance it be, 
Each has left its trace in thee; 
Only this, that Love is strong, 
And the arm of Fate is long. 

Deeply hidden in your eyes, 
Undeciphered histories 
Graven in the ages vast 
Lie there to be read at last: 
Graven deep, they must be true; 
Shall I read them unto you? 

8 



Once a man, now faint and dim 
With the centuries over him, 
Wandered from an ancient town 
On its hills slow-creeping down, 
O'er the ocean, bold and free, 
Roved in careless errantry; 
With Vizcaino had he fared, 
And his strange adventures dared; 
Restless ever, drifting on, 
Far as ship of man had gone ; 
On his cheek the salt that clings 
To the Headland of the Kings, 
Flung from the enchanted sea 
Of Saint Francis Assisi. 
Rover o'er the ocean blue — 
What has he to do with you? 

Only this: he sailed one day 

To your Massachusetts Bay, 

And this voyage was his last, 

For Love seized and held him fast. 

Of that old romance of his 

None can tell you more than this; 

Saving that, as legacies 

To his child, he left his eyes, 

Black as the obsidian stone, 

With a luster all their own, 

Seeing as by magic ken 

Deep into the hearts of men. 

And mid tides of changing years, 

Dreams and hopes and cares and fears, 

Life that flows and ebbs away, 

Love has kept them loyally. 



Once, it chanced, they came to shine 
Straight into this heart of mine. 

Little lady, cease your play 
For a moment, if you may; 
All I ask is, silently, 
Turn your mother's eyes on me! 

Consulado Ingl6s, 

Calle de las Olas Altas, 
Mazatlan, Sinaloa, 

January 10, 1895. 



10 



MEN TOLD ME, LORD. 

Men told me, Lord, it was a vale of tears 
Where Thou hadst placed me, wickedness and woe 
My twain companions whereso I might go; 
That I through ten and three-score weary years 
Should stumble on, beset by pains and fears, 
Fierce conflict round me, passions hot within, 
Enjoyment brief and fatal but in sin. 
When all was ended then should I demand 
Full compensation from Thine austere hand; 
For, 'tis Thy pleasure, all temptation past, 
To be not just but generous at last. 

Lord, here am I, my three-score years and ten 
All counted to the full; I 've fought Thy fight, 
Crossed Thy dark valleys, scaled Thy rocks' harsh 

height, 
Borne all Thy burdens Thou dost lay on men 
With hand unsparing, three-score years and ten. 
Before Thee now I make my claim, O Lord! 
What shall I pray Thee as a meet reward? 

I ask for nothing. Let the balance fall! 

All that I am or know or may confess 

But swells the weight of mine indebtedness; 

Burdens and sorrows stand transfigured all; 

Thy hand's rude buffet turns to a caress, 

For Love, with all the rest, Thou gavest me here, 

And Love is Heaven's very atmosphere. 

Lo! I have dwelt with Thee, Lord. Let me die. 

I could no more through all Eternity. 

March, 1895. U 



THERE WAS A MAN. 

I. 

There was a man who saw God face to face. 
His countenance and vestments evermore 
Glowed with a light that never shone before, 

Saving from him who saw God face to face. 

And men, anear him for a little space, 
Were sorely vexed at the unwonted light. 

Those whom the light did blind rose angrily, 
They bore his body to a mountain height 
And nailed it to a tree; then went their way; 
And he resisted not nor said them nay, 

Because that he had seen God face to face. 

II. 

There was a Man who saw Life face to face 

And ever as he walked from day to day, 

The deathless mystery of being lay 
Plain as the path he trod in loneliness; 
And each deep-hid inscription could he trace; 

How men have fought and loved and fought again; 

How in lone darkness souls cried out for pain; 
How each green foot of sod from sea to sea 
Was red with blood of men slain wantonly; 

How tears of pity warm as summer rain 
Again and ever washed the stains away, 

Leaving to Love, at last, the victory. 

Above the strife and hate and fever pain, 
The squalid talk and walk of sordid men, 

He saw the vision changeless as the stars 

12 



That shone through temple gates or prison bars, 
Or to the body nailed upon the tree, 
Through each mean action of the life that is, 
The marvel of the Life that yet shall be. 

III. 

So when, anear him for a little space, 
Men, whom the light did blind, rose angrily 
And bore his body to the cruel tree. 
He did resist them not, nor say them nay, 
For time's last secret plain before him lay, 

And in Man's Life was God there, face to face. 

Palo Alto, 1901. 



J3 



ALTRUISM. 

"The God of the things as they are" 
Is the God of the highest heaven; 

The God of the morning star, 
Of the thrush that sings at even; 

The God of the storm and sunshine, 
Of the wolf, the snail, and the bee, 

Of the Alp's majestic silence, 

Of the soundless depths of the sea; 

The God of the times and the nations, 
Of the planets as they roll, 

Of the numberless constellations, 
Of the limitless human soul. 

For there is nothing small, 
And naught can mighty be; 

Archangels and atoms all — 
Embodiments of Thee! 

A single thought divine 

Holds stars and suns in space; 

A dream of man is thine, 
And history finds its place. 

When the universe was young, 
This was the perfect thought, 

That life should be bound in one 
By the strand of Love enwrought. 



14 



In the life of the fern and the lily, 
Of the dragon and the dove, 

Still through the stress and struggle 
Waxes the bond of Love. 

Out from the ruthless ages 

Rises, like incense mild, 
The love of the man and the woman, 

The love of the mother and child. 

November, 1896. 



IS 



WHEN MAN SHALL COME. 

When man shall come to manhood's destiny, 
When our slow-toddling race shall be full grown, 
Deep in each human heart a chamber lone 
Of Holies Holiest shall builded be; 
And each man for himself shall hold the key. 
Each there must kindle his own altar fires, 
Each burn an offering of his own desires, 
And each at last his own High Priest must be. 

December, 1894. 



16 



TO JOHN MAXSON STILLMAN. 

A darkening sky and a whitening sea 

And the wind in the palm trees tall! 
Soon or late comes a call for me 
Down from the mountains or up from the sea, 

Then let me lie where I fall! 

And a friend may write, for friends there be, 

On a stone from the gray sea wall: 
"Jungle and town and reef and sea, 
I have loved God's earth and God's earth loved me, 

Take it for all in all!" 

Tutuila, Samoa, 
August, 1902. 



'7 



VIVEKOLS. 

Beyond the sea, I know not where, 
There is a town called Viverols; 
I know not if 't is near or far, 
I know not what its features are, 
I only know 'tis Viverols. 

I know not if its ancient walls 
By vine and moss be overgrown; 

I know not if the night-owl calls 
From feudal battlements of stone, 
Inhabited by him alone. 

I know not if mid meadow-lands 
Knee-deep in corn stands Viverols; 

I know not if prosperity 

Has robbed its life of poesy; 
That could not be in Viverols, 
They would not call it Viverols. 

Perchance upon its terraced heights 

The grapes grow purple in the sun; 
Or down its wild untrodden crags, 
Its broken cliffs and frost-bit jags 
The mountain-brooks unfettered run. 

I cannot fancy Viverols 
A place of gaudy pomp and show, 
A "Grand Etablissement des Eaux," 

Where to recall their withered lives 
The weaklings of the city go. 

18 



Nor yet a place where Poverty- 
No ray of happiness lets in; 

Where wanders hopeless beggary 
Mid scenes of sorrow, want, and sin. 

That could not be in Viverols; 

There's life and cheer in Viverols! 

Perchance among the clouds it lies, 
Mid vapors out from Dreamland blown; 

Built up from vague remembrances, 
That never yet had form in stone, 
Its castles built of cloud alone. 

I only know, should thou and I 

Through its old walls of crumbling stone 

Together wander all alone, 
No spot on earth could be more fair 

Than ivy-covered Viverols! 
No grass be greener anywhere, 
No bluer sky nor softer air 

Than we should find in Viverols. 

Love, we may wander far or near, 
The sun shines bright o'er Viverols; 

Green is the grass, the skies are clear. 

No clouds obscure our pathway, dear; 
Where love is, there is Viverols, — 
There is no other Viverols. 

December, 1888. 



10 



SINALOA. 

I. 

I dream of gray rocks rising rough and sheer 
Above the trembling azure of the sea; 
Of Jong green lines of waves, that listlessly 
Break in slow foam, then slip away in fear, 
Or hide themselves in rock-pools, crystal clear. 

I dream of long white paths, that from the sea 

Climb the gray Mother Range unwillingly 

Through straggling ranks of palms and pines austere 

To lands of Summer, where slow days go by, 

Each as it must, but most reluctantly; 

Of black mantillas that but seem to hide 

Dark eyes undarkened by the darkest night. 

All this my dream — but ever by my side 

Thou, with the midnight eyes by love made bright. 

II. 
We stand to-night on an enchanted shore; 
The warm slow pulse of the great Summer Sea 
Rises and falls the night long, ceaselessly, 
Beating its one grand rhythm evermore. 
See where before us the stark moonlight falls 
On Isla Blanca's bare volcanic walls — 
Some shapeless monster breaking from the deep, 
Lashing the waves in rising from his sleep. 
Yonder in open ocean, hand in hand, 
In solemn row, the three Venados stand, 
Vast and impossible in moonbeams white, 
As they were "Flying Islands of the Night." 

20 



Here Cerro Cruz her iron cross uplifts, 
Triumphant over her reluctant cliffs; 
Beside her armed Vijia, dim and dun, 
Guarding the harbor with her single gun; 
Low at her feet, half-hid in sea-mists gray, 
Shine far the four stars of the Cross of May; 
Beyond her headland, with its palm-tree lone, 
Flashes the beacon-light of tall Creston, 
The last and haughtiest of the craggy horde, 
Sierra Madre thrusts forth oceanward. 

Behind us lies the town in slumber deep, 
And all unrestless, as to thee and me 
Man and his strivings now had ceased to be, 
Or by some spell were bound in endless sleep, 
Leaving us only on enchanted ground, 
Alone together, where there comes no sound, 
Save the slow pulse-throb of the tropic sea 
In the white moonlight beating steadily. 

III. 
Perchance, dear heart, it may be, thou and I, 
In some far azure of infinity, 
Shall find together an enchanted shore 
Where Life and Death and Time shall be no more, 
Leaving Love only and Eternity. 
For Love shall last, though all else pass away, 
The harsh task-master that we call To-day, 
Till each concession Time from Life has wrung, 
Like outworn garments from the Soul be flung, 
And it shall stand, with back no longer bent, 
Slave to the lash of its environment; 
Then this great earth we know shall shrink at last 



21 



To some bare Isla Blanca of the past— 
A rock unnoted in the boundless sea 
Whose solemn pulse-beat marks Eternity 



Las Olas Altas, Mazatlan, 
January 19, 1895. 



22 



A CASTLE IN THE AIR. 

Its tall towers rise against the evening red, 

The castle I have builded in my time; 

With heavy feet I strive its walls to climb, 

But each night finds me at its base instead. 

Those chambers I would fain have tenanted 

Lie far above me in the wavering air, 

For built of vapor is my castle rare ; 

In cloud, foundationless, its walls are laid, 

Its crumbling turrets each day reared anew, 

Changeful as mist, impermanent as dew. 

Content am I, if so my days be spent 

Low at its base, whence haply I may see 

Its towers majestic pierce the firmament, 

And all Life might have been Life seems to be. 

December, 1894. 



23 



A CASTLE IN SPAIN. 

There stands a castle in the heart of Spain, 
Builded of stone, as if to stand for aye, 
With tile-roof red against the azure sky; 
And skies are bluest in the heart of Spain. 
Castle so stately men build not again. 
'Neath its broad arches, in its patio fair, 
And through its cloisters, open everywhere, 
I wander as I will, in sun or rain. 
Its inmost secret unto me is known, 
For mine the castle is. Nor mine alone, — 
'T is thine, O Love, to have and hold alway; 
'T is all the world's as well as mine and thine: 
For whoso enters its broad gate shall say: 
"I dwell within this castle: it is mine." 

December, 1894. 



24 



SANTA CLARA, VIRGEN Y MARTIR, 

Now that the throng has left me, 

I softly close my eyes, 
And one by one before me 

The fairest visions rise, — 
The best that Life can give me 

Of all Life signifies. 

I see a sunny valley 

Between two mountain chains, 
Where roses bloom and lilies 

Along the grassy lanes 
Aflame with golden poppies 

And wet with fragrant rains. 

I see from purple mountains 
The lengthening shadows creep, 

Touching the lanes of poppies, 
Closing their eyes in sleep; 

And Earth's uneasy clamor 
Is hushed in silence deep. 

Again, through sprays of jasmine, 

A woman's face I see; 
I care not what her beauty 

Or her attractions be — 
There may be many fairer, 

But none so fair to me. 



25 



Again, a gentle lady 

Who lived in other days, 

A virgin and a martyr — 
So the old legend says — 

Who in her name enfoldeth 
Delicious destinies. 

O blessed Santa Clara! 

Her spell be over thee, 
To keep thee bright and joyous 

As all her roses be; 
May her sweet influence cover 

The hours 'twixt thee and me. 



March, 1894. 



26 



MADAME DELICIEUSE. 

I know she's coming, and the air around me 

Is warm and bright; 
The little room is filled to overflowing 

With softest light. 

No more the shadow of the winter lingers, 

Across my heart; 
For at the magic hidden in her fingers 

The clouds dispart. 

Now Care and Faction cannot come to vex me 

Mine is the key- 
That locks the door to all unrest and passion 

While Life shall be. 

December, 1887. 



21 



IN A WEEK OF SUNDAYS. 

In a week of Sundays, 

In a year of Mays, 
In a life overflowing 

With sweet holidays. 

Sit beside me, sweetheart; 

Touch my hand once more! 
And the days shall ever 

Follow as before. 

Every day a Sunday, 
Every month a June, 

Every night and morning 
Blessed afternoon! 

February, 1910. 



28 



I SIT IN DARKNESS. 

I sit in darkness while the rain is falling 

With dismal drip and slow, 
With the chill wind adown my chimney calling 

A wordless tale of woe. 
Through the dull air the formless mist is drifting, 

Hiding the hill and plain, 
As though the sunlight on the just or unjust 

Would never fall again. 

A woman enters with a lighted taper, 

The fire gleams on the wall, 
And in an instant is the gloom and darkness 

Faded and vanished all. 
I see without no shadow on the landscape, 

No sorrow in the rain; 
The warmth within the contrast only heightens, 

And the wind cries in vain. 

I lived in darkness; sorrow and misfortune 

Had centered round my head; 
With gloomy shapes the path of life was haunted, 

To nothingless it led. 
A woman came and brought to me a treasure — 

All that 'twas hers to give; 
The shapes around my pathway changed to angels- 

They bade me rise and live. 

December, 1887. 



20 



KOMANDORSKI. 

Sail I o'er the icy sea 

Where the twin Storm-Islands be, 

In a British man-o'-war 

(Cold and hard her bulwarks are), 

Par to where the haughty North 

Sends his eager minions forth, 

Tugging at the tawny manes 

Of deep-sunken mountain chains, 

Great ships greeting with a laugh, 

Tossing them about like chaff; 

Never they since tides began 

Tamed to let or call of man. 

Komandorski, grim, defiant, 
Stands before them like a giant, 
Flinging to the Ocean Chiefs 
The stern gauntlet of his reefs. 

Crest on crest redoubtable, 
Prone at Tolstoi's feet they fall, 
And their haughty hosts become 
Impotent in angry foam; 
While the sea-mists, cold and gray, 
Whirl their shredded ghosts away 
High to where the storm-clouds be, 
The Valhalla of the Sea! 

And I watch them as I lie, 
Tossing ever helplessly, 
In the British man-o'-war 



30 



(Cold as steel her bulwarks are). 
Through the porthole from the shore 
Comes the deep, sonorous roar, 
As on Bering's reefs the surges 
Chant the great Commander's dirges. 

Then, within the sordid gloom 

Of my little cabin-room, — 

All at once — a presence rare 

Lights the unexpectant air. 

Thou art gazing full at me, 

Thou who art the world to me; 

Eyes I have the right to miss, 

Lips I have the right to kiss; 

All that generous life has brought me, 

All there is sweet Love has taught me 

Smiles at me from yonder wall — 

Glances, smiles, and that is all! 

What to me the haughty North? 

What his minions rushing forth? 

What the huge inchoate ghosts 

Of his ever-vanquished hosts? 

What the mighty battle-shocks 

On grim Komandorski's rocks? 

What the moaning of the sea, 

Troubled from eternity? 

What though cold the bulwarks are 

In the British man-o'-war? 

Thou, dear heart, hast been with me! 

What sweet necromancy brought 

Thus the vision of my thought 

O'er these thousand leagues of sea? 



31 



Thus it chanced — in gathering night 

Just one wisp of rosy light, 

Strayed from — none can tell you where — 

Through the tangling ghosts of air, 

From some sunset, it may be, 

On the far Kamchatkan Sea, 

Through the trailing robes and gray 

Of the mists along its way, 

Till it, slant and flutteringly, 

Fell athwart my porthole here, 

Rested on thy picture, dear. 

And I bless the wisp of light, 
And I bless thy sweet Good Night! 

H. M. S. Satellite, 

Off Tolstoi Mys, Bering Island, 
Komandorski, 

August 24, 1896. 



32 



CAPE CHEERFUL. 

"When you shall come to a great cliff standing north- 
ward from Makushin, the volcano, and riven almost from 
base to summit, from the midst of which leaps a 
tumultuous waterfall sheer into the midst of the sea, 
then, the fog lifting, you will leave the cliff well to star- 
board, and enter the land-locked haven. As I did once 
ride out the winter there, this haven is for me called 
'Captain's Harbor,' and because of the nearness of the 
haven is this headland with the waterfall called 'Cape 
Cheerful.' " — Log-book attributable to Captain Cook, 
Unalaska, 1778. 

Homeward bound from the Storm-Islands,* through 
the sullen Icy Sea, 
On our lee 
Rise the savage, swart Smoke-Islands,f which defy 

Sea and sky, 
Hurling back the waves insistent from their boulder- 
cumbered shore, 
Evermore. 

As though shattering the cloud-rack, dark and tall, 

Like a wall, 
And the twin Smoke-Islands vanish as a specter of 
the night 

From our sight, 
While the ship still plunges onward, fog-bound in the 
Icy Sea. 

Suddenly, 

As the light is slowly failing — the long twilight of 
the North, — 

Rises forth, 
As though shattering the cloud-rack, dark and tell, 

The granite wall 

♦Komandorski. 
fBogoslof. 

33 



Of the shapeless huge Moss-Island,* with her earth- 
quake-riven cliff; 

Through the rift, 
Like a swift-spun skein of silver springs intact, 

The cataract, 
From the riven granite buttress far into the Icy Sea; 

Joyfully 
Does it join the tumbling billows, while its spray 

Drifts away 
With the east wind to the leeward. Banished now 
is every fear; 

All is clear; 
For we know the Cape called Cheerful, and it tells 
the haven near. 



Like the fog-bound northern ocean, is the weary 
course of life: 

Doubt and strife 
Hide the way I fain would follow; can I know 

What to do? 
Slowly down my path I wander, sore-perplexed, 

Spirit-vexed, 
By the cloud-rack of conventions o'er us all, 

Like a pall. 
Thus, with downcast eyes and somber, come I to the 
garden-gate ; 

Swift and straight, 
Leaping from a bank of roses, like a fetterless cascade, 

Unafraid, 
Rush the children forth to greet me, with a joyous 

shout of cheer; 
Banished now is all convention, all vexation and 
contention, 

All is clear; 
I have found the "Cape called Cheerful," and I know 
the haven near. 

H. M. S. Pheasant, 

Cape Cheerful, Unalaska, 
September 1, 1896. 



'Unalaska. 



34 



IN TEHACHAPI. 

Cold is the wind upon the mountain side, 
(For she— my lady, — she is far from me), 

White is the snow and thick the mists that hide 
Thy face, Tehachapi! 

Stiffly the yuccas stand in mantles white, 
(Garments unwonted, carried shiveringly), 

While desert cactus, sands, and storm unite, 
Blending impartially. 

But not forever lingers Winter here 

(For there is always Summer in the heart), 

The south wind whispers, and the hills are clear, 
The thick fog falls apart. 

The Summer's gentle touch shall never fail, 
(Because,— my lady,— she will come to me), 

Blue are the skies beyond the mists that veil 
Thy face, Tehachapi! 

Tehachapi Pass, California, 
January, 1893. 



35 



KAWEAH IN TULARE. 

Across Tulare, in the early morning, 

The western trades blow free, 
Bearing above us in huge broken masses, 

The white mists from the sea. 

Through wastes of sand, green-fringed with oaks and 
willows, 

The swift Kaweah goes, 
Down to the thirsty basin of Tulare, 

Which never overflows. 

Its current mingles with the milk-white waters 

Of the great silent lake, 
Which, to receive it, through its guard of tules, 

An opening seems to make. 

O'er the dark foothills rise the calm Sierras, 

Flushed with the morning red: 
From their slow-melting snow-fields the Kaweah, 

An infant stream, is fed. 

Its winding course, rock-walled by cliff and canon, 

I trace in dim outline, 
Through flecks of cloud between the silent summits 

And the dark shades of pine. 

My spirit wanders to those far recesses; 

I scent the fragrant air, 
Filtered from glaciers pure, through sun-warmed 
meshes 

Of pine-leaves everywhere. 

36 



I seem to see the granite cliffs uprising 

Like mighty castle walls; 
And in the breeze, as snow-white banners waving, 

The foamy waterfalls. 

From each dark cleft, half hid in fern and aspen, 

Their music comes to me, 
With the one song the pine-tree's ever singing 

Blended in harmony. 

O river, glorious in the mountain canon, 

Where thy fair birth is placed! 
O river, sad, whose waves are lost and swallowed, 

In alkali and waste! 

O glorious youth, by wondrous dreams surrounded 

With fragrance, light, and life! 
O sad old age, whose force is dissipated 

In idle, aimless strife! 

My life I see, as mirrored in the river, — 

This only may I know, 
'Tis hastening onward toward the Lake of Silence 

Whose waters ne'er o'erflow. 

The river's windings once again I follow, 

Across the desert bare, 
By lines of grateful oaks and bending willows, 

Which tell the water there. 

Along the margin sweetest flowers are springing, 

The birds sing in the trees; 
Where'er the river goes is life and verdure — 

The desert vanishes. 



37 



Dear heart, if so my life be like the river, 

Its fate be mine; 
Let it flow on, its banks be green forever, — 

What matter, oak or pine? 

Tulare, California, 
May 20, 1893. 



3« 



THE BUBBLES OF SAKI. 

In sweet, sad cadence Persian Omar sings 
The life of man that lasts but for a day— 
A phantom caravan that hastes away, 
On to the chaos of Insensate Things. 

"The Eternal Saki from that bowl hath poured 
Millions of bubbles like us, and shall pour." 
The life of man, a half-unspoken word, 
A fleck of foam tossed on an unknown shore. 

"When you and I behind the veil are past, 
Oh! but the long, long while the world shall last; 
Which of our coming and departure heeds, 
As the seven seas shall heed a pebble cast." 

"Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears 
To-day of past regrets and future fears;" 
This is the only wisdom man can know— 
"I come like water, and like wind I go." 

But tell me, Omar, hast thou said the whole? 
If such the bubbles that fill Saki's bowl, 
How great is Saki, whose least whisper calls 
Forth from the swirling mists a human soul! 

Omar, one word of thine is but a breath, 
A single cadence in thy perfect song, 
And, as its measures softly flow along, 
A million syllables pass on to death. 



39 



Shall this one word withdraw itself in scorn 
Because 't is not thy first nor last nor all — 
Because 't is not the sole breath thou hast drawn, 
Nor yet the sweetest word thy lips let fall? 

I do rejoice that when "of me and thee" 
Men talk no longer, yet not less but more 
The Eternal Saki still that bowl shall fill, 
And ever stronger, fairer bubbles pour. 

A humble note in the Eternal Song, 
The Perfect Singer hath made place for me; 
And not one atom in Earth's wondrous throng 
But shall be needful to Infinity. 

April, 1896. 



40 



TO LADY ALICE COURTENEY.* 

I have seen thy name to-day, 
Lady Alice Courteney, 
As a treasure brought to me 
From the mines of history. 
Tis a stately Norman name 
Of a sweet and stately dame, 
And the picture that it brings 
Of long-vanished stately things 
Comes to me as keen and clear 
As a painted miniature. 

As I gaze, they pass away, 

All the vistas of to-day, 

All the battles I have fought, 

All the deeds my hands have wrought, 

All the golden light that fills 

Sunny Santa Clara's hills! 

Unsubstantial as a dream 
Does my lone mist-island seem, 
With its flower-bespangled moss, 
Wet by wayward waves that toss 
Flotsam from the farthest lands 
Over Zoltoi's shining sands; 
Still the cold gray mist above 
Sleep-cap of the Pribilof! 



♦Alice, daughter of Pierre, Lord of Courteney; born 
about 1150; married Edmund (Aymar) de Taillefer, duke 
of Angouleme; mother of Isabel de Taillefer, wife of 
John Plantagenet, called Lackland, the King; ancestress 
of a long line of Cavaliers and Puritans of many de- 
grees, whereof the end is not yet. (Vide Ms. records of 
Edward J. Edwards.) 



Now in darkling mist and spray, 

Let the great world fade away, 

All that is become as naught 

In the vagrant world of thought; 

Cast off seven hundred years, 

With their burdens, hopes and fears; 

Then a fragrance comes to me, 

Rose leaves pressed in history. 

Sweetly strange and strangely sweet, 

Lady Alice — may it be? 

I am here alone with thee. 

Let me kneel, then, at thy feet; 

Ghosts from ghosts have naught to fear, 

White the hand I kiss, my dear! 

I can see thee, decked for show 
In the robes of long ago, 
Brocades rich as tapestry, 
Laces, silks and jewelry — 
All the far-off finery 
Men have fancied meet for thee. 
Roses bloom along thy way, 
Thou a fairer rose than they. 
May I pass thy guarded gate 
Where thy mailed retainers wait? 
They will neither know nor care, 
For I tread with feet of air; 
To thy walls of cold gray stone 
Where the daylight never shone, 
Halls of state that ne'er could be 
Sun-illumined save by thee! 

Pink tipped daisies from the grass 
Nod their welcome as we pass; 



42 



In the corn fields here and there 
Scarlet poppies flame and flare; 
From the hawthorn's greenery- 
Sweet the thrush's call to thee, 
And the skylark soaring high 
Trills his anthem to the sky — 
Lady Alice Courtenay 
Fair are Devon fields in May! 

See I from the turret-tower, 

Where my lady has her bower 

How beyond the castle walls 

Slope the green fields towards the south, 

There thy river finds its mouth 

And the great sea ebbs and falls. 

There the salt, white spray is thrown 

O'er the rocks of Eddystone! 

While above the curving bay 

In its terraces of gray 

Stands thy stern and stolid town 

Watching with ascetic frown 

All that come and all that go 

On the blue waves to and fro, 

To the line of hills that rise 

Faint against the southern skies, 

Where the alien people be — 

The white cliffs of Brittany! 

All this have I seen to-day, 
Lady Alice Courteney — 
As it chanced thy Norman name 
On the page before me came. 
What but name is left to thee? 
What is such a name to me? 



43 



Lady Alice Courteney, 
Thou hast lived and loved for me. 
Fairer thou than any rose 
That in Devon's garden grows. 
Lady, thou wert made for Love, 
And when sweet Love came to thee, 
Much had he to thee to give, 
And one gift was life to me. 

Through the long years coming, going 
Ever is thy life-blood flowing, 
From the hearts of noble earls, 
Through the veins of common churls, 
Knight and lady, boor and clown, 
As the ages follow down; 
Of one blood the nations be, 
Of one blood art thou with me! 

See the rush of history 
Strewn with cast-off finery, 
And the way of common things 
Cluttered with the pomp of kings! 
Even blood of Courteney 
To the earth must find its way. 

Thou a Norman earl didst wed 
Daughter thine was England's queen, 
And her son was England's king 
Then in dim perspective seen, 
As the centuries roll away. 
Generations vanishing 
Move across the changing scene, 
Knights and 'squires and men at arms, 
Captains of the men-'o-war, 
Masters of the Devon farms, 

44 



Priests and bishops here and there, 
Puritan and cavalier; 
Some in silks and laces fine, 
Some in simple hodden gray, 
Children all of thee and thine, 
Of thy blood of Courteney. 

(Red the rose of Lancaster, 
White his heart that hateth her! ) 
'Twas the blood of Courteney 
Once upon Saint Crispin's day 
Stained thy meadows, Agincourt! 
Swiftly through the veins it flows, 
As the fire of battle glows; 

Flows the blood stream as before, 
Proudly when the virgin queen 
Rode the loyal ranks between; 
Sternly when at Marston Moor, 
On the heath in suppliance kneeling, 
Not to England's lord appealing, 
But the Lord of Hosts before! 

Fiercely when the dragon came 
Stinging, scorching far and near, 
Blasting with his tongue of flame 
The fair homes of Devonshire. 
Then by night the word of flame 
"To the watching Pilgrims came." 

Then for home and conscience's sake, 
With the rest fled Goodman Drake, 
That, God helping, o'er the sea 
Build they a new England, free; 



45 



Grim and stern and harsh were they, 
Errant sons of Courtenay; 
But they came of hardy stock, 
Never in the Pilgrim's grave. 
Lay the weakling or the slave, 
Dust to dust, but rock to rock! 

These the names thy children bear, 
Lady Alice Courteney 
On the rolls of history, 
De Bohun; de Taillefer; 
Theirs the shame and glory met 
In thy fame, Plantagenet! 
(Twas a Taillefer who sang 
Till the field of Hastings rang; 
Loud he sang and lustily 
Fought the fight of Normandy, 
Till before his sturdy hand 
Harold's crown lay on the sand. 
'Twas a peasant's son, but he 
Sang his way to history.) 
Then the kingly pageant past, 
Courteneys, Prideux follow fast; 
Grenvilles, Gilberts, Drakes at last. 

('Twas a Grenville once fought on 
Till a day and night were gone. 
"What is one day less or more 
On the sea or on the shore?" 
The Revenge was but a wreck, 
Broken, blood-washed was her deck: 
"Sink her, split her sharp in twain, 
Fall in God's hands, master gunner, 
Never into clutch of Spain!") 

46 



Drakes for generations ten, 

('Twas a Drake the banner bore 

To the New World's farthest shore.) 

After Drake comes Elderkin, 

Waldo, Hawley, follow yet, 

Names for history to forget. 

(One alone the ages may 

Claim to-morrow as to-day. 

To the heart of nature dear, 

"Far in depths of history 

Sounds the voice that speaketh cheer." 

He who tells one of her meanings 

Of the earth shall master be.) 

Whatso'er their rank or fame, 
Lady Alice all must claim. 
Lords they are not, knights nor earls; 
Nor, it may be, clowns nor churls, 
Lady, wouldst thy children scan? 
Thou shalt see the Common Man. 

As the centuries come and go, 
Through their veins thy blood shall flow; 
For the fairest Time has moulded, 
Or in softest garments folded, 
Comes at last in nature's plan 
To her simple Common Man. 

And thus hast thou come to me, 
Lady Alice Courteney! 

—St. Paul of the Pribilof, July 26, 1896. 



47 



TO MELVILLE BEST ANDERSON.* 

I. 

Good friend, your message comes to me 

Far-tost across a winter's sea, 

And once again, as in a dream, 

In your Etruscan town I seem. 

Once more in sunset's reddening haze 

San Miniato's spire's ablaze. 

The last long rays slow fade away 

On thy gray hills, Fiesole! 

Once more across these thirty years, 

Rich with their shimmering hopes and fears, 

Beyond our Santa Clara's dales 

I see your Arno's winding vales, 

Gorged with the laurel-green and pine, 

Slip from the "wind-grieved Apennine." 

While still upon my garden wall 

Thick leaves of Vallombrosa fall. 

II. 

O, regal city of the flowers! 
What glory thine! What fortune ours! 
Thou wert the home of deeds divine, 
The chosen of the ages thine. 
Thine, austere poets who could tell 
The inmost truths of Heaven and Hell. 
Thy grim old sophist pulled the strings 
That shift the destinies of kings. 



*In answer to "La Capponcina," a poem in appre- 
ciation of Florence. 

48 



Thine, artists who on canvas wrought 

The fairest forms that men have sought. 

Thine, Cimabue's first approach, 

Thine, Raphael with the silken touch. 

Thine, sweet girl-faces that we know — 

The loves of Fra Angelico. 

Thine, Vinci, humanest of men, 

His like no world shall see again. 

Sculptors and painters come and go, 

And still supreme thine Angelo. 

Thine, those who mastering lands and times, 

Wrote deathless themes in jagged rhymes. 

Here in thy Duomo unafraid 

Thy great evangelist has prayed. 

There is no gift Time can bestow 

That thou, O Florence, dost not know! 

III. 

Lorenzo's city, can it be 
Thou livest but in history? 
Are all the glories of thy race 
Dissolved in sordid commonplace? 
Seekst thou on an unfriendly shore 
The petty pillage of the Moor! 
O, Florence, thou shalt rise again, 
Thy deeds once more be deeds of men! 
Such real men the ages know 
Crowded thy Ponte Vecchio. 
Not stage-struck singers of the day 
With "endless dirges to decay." 
Even thy Ghibelline and Guelph 
Lusted for power and not for pelf. 



49 



IV. 

Can Time's revenges farther go! 

From Dante to D'Annunzio! 

By poesy — O wondrous trade — 

Camp-braggarts into heroes made! 

Such, "thine red lines of heroes" flow 

Where once trod Fra Girolamo! 

What loftiest cause has fallen lower, 

Down to Giolitti from Cavour? 

To what base uses may we come 

Catspawing to the Bank of Rome! 

To turn away from storied lands 

To wallow in the desert sands, 

And filch from sword-gashed Arabs, then, 

The plunder of the Saracen! 

V. 

No, Florence, no, this shall not be! 
By thy majestic history, 
By all thy lives of ancient worth, 
By all the fairest forms on earth, 
By all the memories we bear, 
By Casa Guidi's casements rare, 
By all that calls men's souls to thee 
O'er snow-dashed Alp or stormswept sea. 
Thine was the spirit once which broke 
Age-long obsession, which awoke 
Old warring Europe from its strife 
To thoughts of art, to acts of life. 
Let "Africa's dried leaf" remain. 
To thine own self come back again. 



50 



THE IMPERIALIST. 

A dog there was and he held a bone — 

(Better let well enough alone) : 

And other dogs there were, but then, 

They were mostly curs, not gentlemen. 

So when they cry divide! divide! 

He passed by on the other side. 

For these be maxims, true and sound, 

There is never enough to go around! 

And this is forever and ever true, 

What is good for me is the best for you! 



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